


There Is Grace In Denial (But None In Me)

by that_RedRedWhite



Series: Dips to go with my Chips [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Night Stands, Original Character(s), Past Character Death, Same universe as CTCI, only briefly mentioned, rated explicit just in case, sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28865451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_RedRedWhite/pseuds/that_RedRedWhite
Summary: He feels good. Like everything was going to be okay, and he shouldn’t have a care in the world. What was it he was supposed to care about, anyway?“Hello,” a soft voice calls from his right, odd accent pulling him from his tranquil state.He takes in the vague frame of a man calmly standing a few feet away. He looks… familiar.
Relationships: Past Thomas Jefferson/Martha Wayles Skelton, Thomas Jefferson & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Thomas Jefferson/Meriwether Lewis
Series: Dips to go with my Chips [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2040289
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	There Is Grace In Denial (But None In Me)

**Author's Note:**

> A short oneshot that belongs in the same universe as my work Chips To Cash In, from Jefferson's past.  
> One thing you need to know if you haven't read it; Meriwether Lewis is Jefferson's age, they grew up in the same neighborhood.  
> Drug use described, but nothing explicit (no needles), the rating is to be safe. Brief mention of sex, again, nothing too explicit.  
> I did my best on the French, do forgive me if I failed :P  
> Mad thanks for my incredible new friend and beta! @herewithstupid !!! You guys gotta check out their writing, they are so talented and I am blessed that they take time to help me work on my shit <3

The streets of New York are staggeringly frigid in winter. A thin layer of snow often covers the streets, while the bite of the cold air chases away any poor souls who are unfortunate enough to be called into the city, nips at the exposed slivers of skin on ankles and hands before they hastily cower away, leaving it a deserted palace of ice-covered tarmac.

On such a quiet and empty side street, he stands alone, leaning against one of the parked vehicles by the sidewalk and enjoys the silence of the late night hour in peace. The third lamplight in the row on his side flickers, and occasionally, a distant sound of crackling ice can be heard as a car drives on the main road. None of those catch his attention. It is but an insignificant hum that happens around him as he gazes up at the tall slick building before him, out of sight, out of mind.

Several windows are still lit from inside, but to him they appear as dimmed balls of energy, static but shimmering, scattered in a sporadic, patternless map across the vast black of the night, like constellations in the sky. Aimless. A small laugh can be heard, and it is a pleasant surprise for him when he discovers he is the one quietly laughing, too embroiled in playing his game of ‘connect the dots’ with the lights before him, painting a formless piece of art with his mind's eye. He cannot remember what it was supposed to look like, only that the shapes he now sees are not the one he saw a moment ago.

Like this, head tilted back, neck pulled taught and breathing in the cold chill of the New York night, the smell of garbage and vent fumes doesn’t bother him as much, is easily ignored as he lets his mind drift.

It’s as though he is floating, resting on a cloud, head pleasantly drowsy and filled with a dulcet smoke. He is relaxed, undisturbed, equally as aimless at those makeshift stars in the not-quite sky of dark stone before him. He feels good. Like everything was going to be okay, and he shouldn’t have a care in the world. What was it he was supposed to care about, anyway?

“Hello,” a soft voice calls from his right, odd accent pulling Thomas from his tranquil state.

Head lulling to the side, Thomas takes in the vague frame of a man calmly standing a few feet away. Little by little, the vision before him comes more clear, the man’s formerly blank face now appears to be wearing a smile, watching with kind eyes and patiently waiting for Thomas to finish studying him. He looks… familiar. Which is very odd. In the very back of his mind, Thomas remembers he came here alone, doesn’t have a single friend in this vast city. Despite that, he has a suspicious notion that he knows that face.

On second glance, Thomas thinks as he stares at the stranger, he looks… almost identical to himself. Save for the way the stranger's hair is pulled back into a fluffy ponytail, and the two stud earrings, one in each lobe, that glisten under the illuminating beam of the street lights, the similarities between them are striking.

_Maybe I took a bit too much?_

“It’s a beautiful night, is it not?” His doppelganger says, still smiling at him kindly.

Thomas blinks at him, slow and cat-like. “T’s cold,” he drawls, equally slow, accent coming out thick. His tongue feels heavy, his jaw made of stone.

The man's smile grows more playful. “All the more reason to be inside, non?”

_Isn’t he scared of me?_

“J'avais besoin d'un peu d'air.” Thomas’s slurred speech curls the French words. They taste odd in his mouth. Astringent and aged.

“Ah, alors, cela ne vous dérange pas si je vous rejoins un peu, non? Je pourrais utiliser un peu de compagnie.”

In five quick steps, the man places himself at Thomas’s side, at ease with his hands shoved into his coat pocket, angled elbow knocking against the top of Thomas’s arm, head facing forward, looking at the tall building. His eyes are bright, Thomas notices. Probably in complete contrast to his own bleary ones. He is younger than Thomas first thought, too. Looks barely out of high school.

The kid turns those alert eyes to lock with his, small pleasant smile unwavering. “It does not do well to dwell on intrusive thoughts. Everyone has them, but they are not good to leave floating in your head,” he says, but it’s not in reprimand, almost like a passing afterthought.

“I- what?” Thomas stutters out.

The boy looks down between them and nods his head. “You are gripping the handle, my friend.”

“Wha-” Oh. He is. Thomas lets go of the freezing metal of the car door’s handle, startled, clenching his cramped hand before his face. He hadn’t even noticed. “I- I didn’t…” he trails off, at a loss for words.

“I do not know what you were thinking of stopping yourself from doing when you first gripped the handle, but… it’s okay, to have a messy head sometimes. Everyone does.” Smaller, more delicate hands take his own into their warm hold, bringing it before the stranger’s face. Thomas simply stares groggily as hot air is blown on the back of his hand, sending a tingle of sensation up the numb limb. “Whatever you took, I think you might have taken a bit too much.”

What he wanted to stop himself from... doing? He didn’t- wait... he did.

_‘The scariest part would be letting go’_

He remembers now, the thoughts he entertained briefly before counting the lights. But he didn’t mean to, it was only speculation, he never actually intended to-

“I will guess that you do not do this drug you’ve taken very often?” The stranger asks, still as kind, not a shred of revulsion in his voice. Only care.

_He reminds me of you, Martha_

Thomas takes a harsh breath and pulls his hand away, sticking it in his pocket. Something metallic and cold lays in it. He grabs onto his, squeezing hard. The pain of it’s ridges digging into his palm helps to ground him. “I- no,” he clears his throat, trying to focus, but everything still feels so far away. “How… how did you know?”

The boy’s smile turns a tad sad, and he only says, “Your, um- pupille, are very… comment dire? Big.”

“Je ne-” Thomas struggles, the word _right there_ , but out of reach. “Je ne sais pas,” he laughs, “Je ne me souviens pas.”

The laughter bubbles out of him, and the way it shakes his body makes his vision swim. He doesn’t know what’s funnier, that he can’t remember the word, or that he doesn’t know what word he was looking for in the first place. His new friend places a hand on his shoulder as he sways forward, but chuckles along with him.

“Do you have a place to stay?” his friend asks, stepping in front of him, urging Thomas to lift his weight from the car with a gradually increasing pull on both of Thomas’s elbows.

Thomas racks his memory. “Um,” he breathes, grasping at his mind for answers he knows he should have. His fists clench in his pockets. Feeling the hotel key in his right, he takes it out.

“Oh, this is your hotel, then! Très bon, let me walk you to your room? I can still stay with you, if you want,” the boy says, takes Thomas’s hand again and pulls him forward as he walks back, never breaking eye contact. And Thomas allows him, taking one step, another, before he _remembers-_

_Hand roaming over him, rough, dragging on his skin and a laugh breathed against his mouth-_

“No!” he rips his hand away from the warm stranger’s hold, clutching it to his chest. “I don’ wan’to go.'' His voice sounds feeble, even to his own ears. Choked. Lamentable. “I want to forget.”

_I should have taken more_

The boy waits patiently as Thomas takes several sharp breaths. When he settles down, he closes his eyes and feels the world around him tilt. Suddenly, warmth is pressed against his front, the hair on the side of his head swept back. Thomas blinks his eyes open, struggling to focus. His arms feel funny at his sides, and it takes him a moment to realise it’s the kid’s grip he is feeling, holding him up as he leans against him.

_I definitely took too much_

“I will not force you, but...” the kid murmurs, and the hot air exhaled against Thomas’s ear sends a shiver down his spine. The kid pulls back, for the first time letting worry break his smile. “I really will not sleep well knowing you are out on your own. Let me guide you up, at least. Please.”

Thomas looks at him, his image almost a mirror of Thomas’s own, but- younger. Happier. More… _clean_. There is only a hint of stubble on his mirror’s face, it’s eyes open, honest. There is nothing weighing it down. Not a speck of dust on its surface. Thomas lifts his hand to touch it, fingertips connecting with skin, rough little hairs snagging on them as he drags his touch down his mirror’s image. He smiles, and his mirror smiles back in kind, tilting its head and- a small twinkle of light on the boy’s earring- oh, it’s not a mirror.

Seemingly unphased by the odd behavior of the man before him, the boy takes his hand again, slowly leading Thomas up the stairs. The rest of the world fades away as he follows this siren’s call.

The lights of the lobby are blinding, the sudden heat enveloping his face feels both muted and too much all at once. Mercifully, they do not stay long. Few words are exchanged between the boy and the woman at the front desk, a dull conversation that is happening next to him, but a million miles away. Thomas thinks he can hear the words ‘cousin’ and ‘drunk’, but it can’t be about him. He’s not drunk.

Led to the elevator, he has to close his eyes against the onslaught of a million Thomas’s and mini Not-Thomas’s standing in an endless row in the mirror. He rests his head against the cool metal doors. Actually, they might be warm. He can’t really tell. Had stayed outside far too long. His perception of heat all but desensitized from the cold. How long was he out for, anyway?

There’s a ding -ah, elevator, right…- and Thomas steps out and to the left, an instinct from work, before a small tug on his sleeve makes him turn around.

“This way,” the kid from before is still with him, pointing in the other direction.

_What did I ever do to deserve you?_

It’s a short walk to his room. The lights are still headache-inducing, the carpet makes the floor wobble, but moving is more manageable than before. There’s a quiet rattle sound, and the door he is standing next to opens. He almost waits for someone on the other side to appear before remembering that it’s his own room.

The kid pulls him inside after him, stopping to turn on the lights and close the door. Thomas flinches against the assault on his sense of sight, but after a moment opens his eyes to take in the mess made of the stuffy, smoke-smelling room before him. The sheets are rumpled on the bed, there's a makeshift ashtray made from a paperboard beer coaster holding a half-smoked spliff on the bedside table, the suitcase he packed lays upside down next to the desk, it’s contents spilling onto the floor beside it. The desk is by far the most chaotic cluster. On it are a mess of papers, most of his toiletries, his house keys and wallet scattered across the desk’s top, along with a forgotten mix of weed and tobacco that sits on a coffee plate, rolling papers, his grinder, and a small, mostly empty, bag that hosts the leftover white powder he took.

Hands guide him again, sitting him down on the chair facing the bed, the kid’s bittersweet smile tearing his eyes from the rumpled bed as he crouches down before Thomas, hands holding onto Thomas’s knees to keep himself steady.

“Hey,” he softly shakes Thomas’s knee and Thomas snaps his eyes back from where they drifted back to the bed, “What is it?”

_I am a disgrace_

“I…” Thomas swallows and feels his eyes going wide, the memories trickling back in. “I slept with a man.”

The boy gives him a puzzled look before a troubled one replaces it. “I am guessing that is not the usual for you, either?”

Disbelief and guilt fill him. He has no idea what to do, what to say. Thomas just shakes his head, slow as a snail, hating himself progressively as piece by piece he recalls everything.

_He wants out of this cursed city. He hates the smell of it, hates the people in it, the vivacity of it. Martha’s ghost follows him on every corner, reflects in every window. He’s finally done with this stupid story he’s been chasing all week, can finaly blow off tonight- has been itching to since Tuesday, feels the burning need in his veins to_ disconnect _as though his blood has been replaced with acid. All he needs is to get some food into his system and he’ll be out of here._

_“Thomas?” someone says somewhere to his left, and he turns his head from the coffee-shop menu to the man that called his name._

_Bright blue eyes twinkle with glee, a smile breaking across the handsome face of the ash-blond man Thomas finds he knows, but isn't sure from where. “Thomas Jefferson?” the man pushes for an answer again, and there’s something in the way he says his last name-_

_“Meriwether?”_

_\----_

_It was a short, polite, generic, conversation. An “it’s been so long”, a “you look good, I heard you were sent to a military boarding school”, followed by a cheeky comment that had led them to where they were._

_“You know what they say about those places. Well, it’s all true.”_

_\----_

_They’re passing a spliff between them - their second one in only a single hour - and Lewis is giving him this_ look. _Thomas isn’t sure what it means. Is too high to start analyzing. Instead, he mumbles something about wanting to delete this week from his mind._

_“I've got something for that, if you want,” Lewis grins lopsidedly at him, eyebrows rising closer to his hairline in a doped-out attempt at a wiggle._

_Thomas scoffs but doesn’t say a word, just watches, as Lewis passes the joint back to him, takes a long drag while the blonde gets up and pads to his earlier discarded backpack, pants nearly slipping down from his hips. He waits, dazed, as Lewis pulls out two tiny self-seal bags, moving a small amount of the white powder from the full bag into the empty one using a key on his keychain, the motion repeated four times. It’s still a ridiculously small amount, is all Thomas thinks._

_Lewis pads back and flicks the small bag before placing it on the table. The full bag he brings over with him, showing it to Thomas. “Ket,” he says, as a way of explanation. “Ever tried it?”_

_“Do I look like a drug addict to you?” Thomas grunts, but he can’t stop the smile from spreading on his face by how ridiculous he sounds saying that while being completely high off his ass._

_“Hey, we don’t use that kind of language in this house,” Lewis says, shaking a finger in front of Thomas’s nose._

_He bats it away before he gives into the drive to bite at it. ”House?” Thomas scoffs again and sits up straighter. “You mean room. My room, to be exact, so don’t tell me what to do in my hotel room, that I am paying for.” He grins wide, before flopping back against the pillow he had been resting on._

_Lewis chuckles. “So you want some or nah?”_

_Thomas eyes the bag, bending a long leg and swaying it from side to side idly, contemplating. “What’s’it good for?”_

_“It makes you feel like you’re on a cloud. Fuzzy. Like everything’s good. It makes you forget your worries and just… relax.”_

_To forget. That sounds absolutely wonderful right now._

_Lewis smirks at him and picks a tiny amount of powder on the end of his key again. “You snort it, just put it right under your nose and sniff hard while blocking your other nostril,“ he says as he demonstrates by doing exactly that, then rubs over the nostril he snorted the drug from. “Don’t take more than a third of that bag I left you, the next time you use it. You don’t want to end up in a K-hole on your own.”_

_Scooping another small amount with the key, Lewis shuffles closer on his knees before lifting the key to hover under Thomas’s nose, gently placing his other on the side of his face. “Tilt your head back a little… now.”_

_He does as instructed, taking a sharp inhale through his nose, Lewis petting his cheek before pulling away to sit on his heels._

_“It feels weird,” Thomas comments as he too rubs at the tip of his nose, gently sniffling. It’s almost like a speck of dust is tingling the inside of his nose, but not bothering him enough to induce a sneeze._

_Lewis laughs, throwing his head back, the deep v of his shirt making his stretched neck appear even longer than it already is, before almost losing his balance and scrambling for purchase, finding it on Thomas’s shoulders as Thomas grabs his other hand with his own._

_There’s a stutter of breath at their proximity, and Thomas isn’t sure which one of them it came from._

_Lewis is giving him that look again, the one Thomas can’t decipher, until he says “You know, I never forgot about our kiss at the stables behind the Johnson ranch,” and suddenly, Thomas knows clear as day where this is going._

_He must be high out of his mind, because he’s closing the distance between them, claiming Lewis’s mouth in a hungry kiss, is dropping the joint on what he hopes is the nightstand and fists both hands in the other mans open zip hoodie. It takes exactly three seconds before doubt creeps into his mind. Before_ Martha _creeps into his mind. In his lapse in focus, Lewis takes control of the kiss, shoves Thomas’s legs open and lays himself between them, grinding down against him._

_Heat pulls low in his stomach, and Thomas pushes all thoughts of Martha aside._

_Right now he just wants to forget._

_\----_

_He can’t pinpoint the exact moment the drug had hit his system. All that resurfaces are the faded memories of sex, the uncertainty of if he even enjoyed it. He’s never… with another man…_

_It was pure luck that he voiced that thought out loud. Lewis gave him the dopiest of smiles before whispering ‘I’m two of your big firsts? I’m honored. Don’t worry, I’ll make it good for you’._

_It felt weird at first, the wiggle of fingers in him not something he was used to, not something he had ever dared to explore on his own, the fullness and stretch when Lewis took him only overwhelming him further. It got better, something in him shooting sparks down to his toes, adding to the sensations already battling within him- one aiming to suppress and subdue, one aiming to arouse and incite. But even with the added pleasure something felt… off kilter._

_Lewis had left some time ago, leaving a scribbled ‘call me’ note with his number on one of the many forgotten papers on the desk. Thomas wants to burn it, to erase it from existence, to trash this whole hotel room. He brings his knees up to his chest, hugging himself as he curls into a ball at the center of his bed, wishing the world would disappear again._

_The drugs are wearing out of his system, slowly being replaced by a Niagara-falls flow of self-loathing that threatens to drown him._

_How could he do this?!_

_It hasn’t even been a full year since she died. He just wants her back so badly, wants to turn back time, wants to scream at his younger self to move the steering wheel, to make_ him _take the worst of the impact instead of her, wants to forget Lewis’s hands on him, he just wants his wife-_

_A whimper tears itself from his throat as affliction and heartache consume him whole._

_But that’s just the worst part, isn’t it? That he can’t even call her that. Will never get to call her that._

_He wants to forget._

_Lifting his head, he spies the small bag of white powder on his desk, and before he can talk himself out of it, he has some, definitely more than Lewis advised, on the end of his house key and-_

“Hey,” the soft touch on his cheek breaks him out of the crippling prison his mind has become.

Thomas shakes his head and leans back, resting low against the back of the chair and rubs his hands over his face. “Désolé,” he whispers between shaky breaths, “J'ai le cafard.”

The whole world is vibrating. It’s the only way to explain the way his body quakes, out of his control.

“I think you have more than the cockroach, my friend,” the boy pulls Thomas’s hands away from his face, revealing his agonised expression, encouraging him to meet the boy’s wistful eyes by scooting closer still. “Tu as le cœur brisé.”

_How can you read me so well?_

As if hearing his thoughts, the boy shrugs a shoulder and says, “I’ve seen it before,” which is both an answer and also doesn’t answer any of it at all.

He’s starting to think clearer. The room isn’t spinning as much as before, the fog in his mind not as overpowering.

Heartbroken, the kid had called him.

If only his grief was so easy to explain, could be captured with but a single word.

It’s an ocean of pain he can never hope to cross, no shore in sight, his only lighthouse stolen from him. It’s a whole future, _shattered_. Dead before it could grow. It’s drifting, lost, in the vacuum of space, no gravity, in a freefall. Every morning he wakes up alone is another arrow through his chest, every meal spent by himself turns the food to ashes on his tongue.

Martha was his axis. Without her...

He feels broken. Heart, body, mind…. At the end of the day, it all rolls into one. Just… broken.

The kid squeezes his hands affectionately, then lowers to take off Thomas’s shoes, taking care to place them neatly next to the desk before standing. “Come now,” he says and draws Thomas up, encourages him to take a step, then another, to stand at the center of the room. Disoriented still, Thomas allows the boy to undress him from his coat.

Cold air rushes in against his naked chest, making him shiver.

Right. He wasn’t exactly thinking when he got dressed to go outside earlier.

The kid blinks at him, staring a bit too hard, a nervous laugh and an unsure ‘Um-’ leaves him before he clears his throat. He probably wasn’t expecting Thomas to be half naked underneath his coat.

Embarrassed, Thomas shuffles his feet and hunches over himself, looking at the floor like a scolded child.

“Would you… prefer to keep your pants?” the kid hesitantly asks, and Thomas quickly nods his head, too scared to find out whether he remembered to pick up his underwear from wherever Lewis had flung them, can’t bring himself to scan the floor for them should the kid come to realise what it is he’s looking for.

Thomas is half expecting the boy to crawl into the bed, with the way he leads him to it, and immediately opens his mouth to tell him that _this is really not a good idea_ , but his jaw clicks shut as the boy twists around and -with a surprising show of strength- throws Thomas onto the bed. Or maybe he didn’t so much as throw him, as Thomas tripped over himself on the way and ended up face-first in an awkward angle on the mattress.

A chuckle comes from above him while delicate hands roll him onto his side. Thomas watches quietly, breath hitching in his chest, as the kid leans over him and drags the comforter, tucking it securely around Thomas.

“Well, I think you can get by from here, non?” he says, lips stretched in a wide grin. “I will not tell you how to live, yes? But…” Here his grin wavers, eyes turning pensive, a glimmer of melancholy shining briefly in their depths before retreating one more. Brief enough that Thomas almost wonder’s if he imagined it. “I hope you take better care of yourself. Okay?”

A reply sits on the tip of his tongue, but it shrivels and dies. He can’t bring himself to tell that tempting lie; _he will, he promises._

He already knows he won't.

Won’t stop smoking. Won’t throw that bag of white powder down the drain like any sane man would do.

He won’t call Lewis, but he knows plenty of other dealers. He’ll fill that bag again.

The kid sighs and casts his gaze to the floor, nods his head and says, “Okay”, talking to himself more than Thomas.

It’s the utter exhaustion breathed into that single word that makes Thomas sneak out a hand to clutch at the kid’s royal-blue coat as he turns to leave, silently pleading with him to halt and turn to look at Thomas again.

“T-thank you,” Thomas stutters lamely before pulling his hand back under the covers, mentally scolding himself for being too fucked-up still to make a proper show of gratitude.

A hand lands softly on his head, bringing tears to Thomas’s eyes as the kid pets him twice on the fluff of his hair, whispers, “Après la pluie, le beau temps, mon ami. You are stronger than this. Believe in yourself, and this too shall pass.”

_I needed to hear this_

_But I can’t stand to hear it right now_

Thomas waits awake until he hears the door click shut, waits some more for good measure, before lifting up on his elbows and scanning the bed for the half-smoked joint he knows he left somewhere before. It takes him a moment to spy it on the nightstand, tipped into the ashtray.

Rolling over, he reaches out and grips it between trembling fingers, places it to balance precariously between his lips as his other hand sneaks down to grope at his pockets, feeling for a lighter and fishing it out. He lights it up and falls to splay back on the bed, resting his arm over his eyes.

One day he’ll feel strong enough to put this addiction down. But right now…

_Right now it just hurts._

* * *

This goddamn job is testing his very last nerve, again. Don’t get him wrong, he likes his job. On most days. But some days are just too exhausting, Washington too demanding, and the craving to forget, to obliterate his frustrations with clouds of smoke, too high.

Washington has just introduced him to the most obnoxious, _ratchet_ son-of-a-bitch he’s ever met. The bastard makes his blood boil with every word that tumbles out of his mouth, and those eyes- the way they examine him, as though trying to pick him apart, makes Thomas’s gut twist into a knot. Every. Single. Time. Something about the way he moves and talks makes his throat run dry and his heart speed up as if he ran a marathon.

It’s loathing.

Unadulterated loathing.

It’s got to be.

Thomas continues to grumble and curse to himself as he makes his way to the break room, in desperate need of some herbal tea (he’s already had two coffees, and already is stretching his caffeine intake), when he passes a window and has to do a double take.

At first he thought it was his reflection- and indeed a reflection it was, but not his.

Thomas turns his head around and peers at an almost carbon-copy of himself, hair tied back in a fluffy pony-tail and a crisp blue Italian-cut suit.

He looks… familiar.

But then again, they look so alike, Thomas wouldn’t be surprised if that is why he feels like he knows this man.

Cautiously, he makes his way over to the man talking pleasantly with the bastard from before- who spots Thomas coming closer first, rolls his eyes and crosses his arms breathing a nearly silent ‘I’ll see you at lunch’ before he flees.

Blinking, confused at being suddenly left on his own, the familiar man tilts his head and whispers quietly to himself, “Quel est son problème, aujourd'hui?”

Already Thomas likes this Frencham a lot more than he did the gremlin.

“Excusez-moi,” Thomas says to get his attention, an easy smile plastered on his face though internally he cringes at how bad his accent has become, the Virginian tilt sneaking its way in. It’s been too long since he’s had a reason to speak in French.

The Frenchman turns to him and his eyebrows immediately rise up in surprise, his mouth falling slightly open.

Thomas feels the smile on his face grow a bit wider. “Hi,” he sticks out his hand, “I’m Thomas, Thomas Jefferson. I don’t think we have been introduced.”

“Non, I do not believe we have,” the Frenchman replies and takes his hand in a firm shake, palm warm against Thomas’s, a sly little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Gilbert. Though you will probably hear most people refer to me more as Lafayette. I am interning alongside Hamilton.”

Ah, yes, the gremlin.

“Forgive me for being so blunt,” Thomas says as he lets his hand fall. “But I do have to ask, have we-” he makes a back and forth pointing motion between them with his forefinger, “-Have we met before?”

“Hm..” Lafayette’s coy smile now stretches into a full, toothy grin, like he’s laughing at an inside joke Thomas isn’t aware of. He rakes his eyes over Thomas’s form up and down and says in a playful tone, “I would have remembered had I seen such a man, as handsome as myself.”

Laughing, Thomas feels his shoulders ease a bit from their usual tense set. Lafayette joins him with his own chuckle, hand raising to hover before his mouth before he sticks them both in his pockets, tilting his head once again to the side. “I will see you around, Thomas.”

 _Yeah-_ he wants to say, but the way the light catches on Lafayette’s earring just looks so damn _familiar_ , he’s left to stand there, half smile still stuck on his face as Lafayette walks back a couple of steps before he twists on one foot like a ballerina and saunters away.

Huffing a small snicker and shaking his head, Thomas makes his way again towards the break room, spirits running slightly higher than before.

Well, even if they’d never met before, he thinks he and Lafayette could actually be friends.

Maybe it’s their shared face, but there’s just something about the younger man that makes Thomas feel like he could trust him. Labels him as 'safe'.

How bizarre.

**Author's Note:**

> I recently found out that when French people want to say they 'feel blue', they say they 'have the cockroach', and I think that is adorable.  
> Thank you for reading!!  
> Comments give me life, and this was a risky-ish piece, for me. I'd love to know what y'all thought of it!!!  
> Don't do drugs, kids.


End file.
